


Christmas

by sherlockholmeslives



Series: Welcome to London (One-Shots) [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-15
Updated: 2012-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-03 16:35:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/383591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockholmeslives/pseuds/sherlockholmeslives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the Hiatus post-Reichenbach, Sherlock spends Christmas on a rooftop with a gun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas

20:42, December 25, 2014.

 

Sherlock sits on a rooftop in downtown Uzhhorod, on the Ukraine/Slovakia border. A rather beautiful town, he thinks absently, considering what he’s here for. It’s been an exhausting day ~~weekmonthyear~~ , but things seem to be slowly coming to a close. Still not quite the home stretch, but at least there’s a chance at an exit point now - for a very long time that wasn’t even a reasonable thing to consider.

He looks down at the pub across street, at one group in particular. Through the grimy glass he can see them talking, deals being made. The one with the personal armoury is/was one of Moriarty’s men - not particularly high in the ranks, but high enough to be a threat.

More drinks are ordered. The contracts aren’t signed yet; they’re celebrating a little preemptively. Sherlock has watched this deal go down in so many places; the web trying to expand itself, keep itself together when so very much of it has fallen away already. He’s stopped so many deals like this, and the images of them flood his mind, overwhelming to the point that he has to crush his eyes closed, putting the gun down on the roof beside him and just hold his head, trying to keep all the bedlam down, keep it locked away until the job’s over, until it’s appropriate to fall apart. Forcing himself to breathe, or at least trying to, he can feel the walls crushing in, so much pressure and so little gained. Everything shrinks around him, and it’s like the sky is falling, his heart beating so fast he can’t move for fear of falling to pieces. Darker and colder _and harder and smaller and bloodier and more alone and_ —

 

**_beep_ **

**_  
_**

The sudden, unexpected sound from his coat pocket makes him jump, sudden clarity of the real world returning. Tentatively, he digs his slightly trembling hand into his pocket, digging out his phone.

[ Bit mundane for me, this. - JW ]

It takes several seconds for the message to compute. _Of course, December 25, Christmas, holidays, family, boringboringboring. He hasn’t texted in a long time; assumed he’d given up by now. Is it good or bad that he’s still trying?  
_

~~_[You should try it where I am. -SH]  
[I could use you over here. -SH]  
[Try insulting someone. Usually works. -SH]  
[Maybe next year will be better. -SH]_ ~~

Each text was deleted as soon as it was typed out. He knew he’d never send them, but somehow he couldn’t stop himself from pretending, just for a minute.

Sherlock read the text from John again, smiling ever so slightly before he put the phone back into his pocket. His hand wasn’t shaking anymore, he noticed as he picked up the gun again, breathing deeply as he looked back to the window, lining up the shot just before the contract was about to be signed.

 _Thankyou, John,_ he thought as he took the shot, glass shattering around the bullet hole in the window as patrons screamed, and one particularly nasty arms dealer lay sprawled across the bar, gore splattered over his contractors.


End file.
